


Touch Grace

by leiascully



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dominance, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Irene did in Sherlock's flat before he and John came home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: 2.01 "A Scandal in Belgravia"  
> Concrit: Welcome  
> A/N: This story caught hold of me and wouldn't let me go. Title inspired by a line in Stuart Davis' song "Wand": "raise your hand to slap my face / put me back in touch with grace". I hold with the fandom secret that said that Irene is queer, not exclusively gay, and used that term as a shorthand in her conversation with John. (Believe me when I say I'm pro-ladies-who-like-to-sleep-with-ladies, but I'm also pro-ladies-who-enjoy-both-other-ladies-and-dudes-(and other-gender-identified individuals.).) (I'm also pro-parentheses.)  
> Disclaimer: _Sherlock_ and all related characters are the property of Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

It's odd, Irene thinks, just how easy it was to slip into Sherlock's flat. All that adrenaline for nothing, and who ever heard of a detective with faulty locks on his windows. She stops for a moment to look around the flat, but there was never any real question of where she'd hide herself. She's had six months to think about it, dream about it, plot and plan about it. She will tuck herself into his bed. There's a lovely irony there, the dominatrix in the bed of the man called The Virgin.

Her nerves still jangle as she smooths back his bedclothes - Irene knows she'll have to fuck herself to sleep. All those months and she's finally here. It seems an age since she first heard of Mister Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, the consulting detective. She decided then and there she'd conquer him. She is walking a dangerous path, coming here, but Jim Moriarty trusts her (as much as he trusts anyone). She has to rely on that. Well, that and her wits. They've done well by her so far.

She pulls Sherlock's greatcoat off the hook and lays it in the bed beside her, burying her face in the dark wool. Oh, Sherlock Holmes. She doesn't feel this way about men, generally. She's dominated men, of course, and she's fucked men; she has no problem with either of those things. There's nothing wrong with a fine firm cock every now and then. But she rarely feels that sense of enchantment that she feels with women: women are so finely made and so lovely. So much more about them is hidden away, figuratively as well as literally. Women must be seduced. Men are easily conquered. It isn't any fun dominating people who will surrender to her immediately and completely. She likes a challenge. So she sleeps with artists and authors mostly, when she sleeps with men, because they still have secrets. And then there is Sherlock, a mystery in and of himself. Almost as good as a woman, Sherlock Holmes, at least so far as it comes to enchanting her. She's caught in his spell, but no matter: she's woven her web around him just the same.

She rolls onto the coat and pushes her face deeper into the satin lining. She breathes him in: skin, sweat, shampoo, just a touch of cigarette smoke, a mere hint of cologne, and the smell of London all through the wool. She skins out of her clothes and slips her bare arms through the sleeves. Oh, yes, delightful. The satin is cool and smooth against her skin, warming rapidly. She hopes Sherlock will smell her on the coat the next time he wears it. She hopes his body responds. She hopes the scent of her distracts him.

She'd love to dominate him, good Lord, yes. She longs to tie him up and see how long it would take him to stand at attention, vulnerable as he'd be. She's nearly certain he'd be hard as soon as he felt her bonds on his wrists and ankles. He seems the type. And oh, the things she could do with him: slap that pretty face until he pants with longing, wrap the lash of her whip around his cock, put those beautiful hands in leather gloves and stand over him while he fucks her with his long fingers. She would make him beg. She would make him moan as if his heart were breaking and his bones were shaking apart. She would make him hers.

It's a dangerous game, this. The worst thing that could happen, the worst possible consequence to this misbehaviour, would be that Sherlock might never speak to her again. Never text, never call, never exchange witticisms. The second worst thing is that Jim will without a doubt have her killed if he follows her too closely. She's become something of a liability, too entertained by her mark. Then again, so is he, but the master isn't quick to forgive the same foibles in the messenger. And if not Moriarty, then any of the other villains she's about to betray. Still, she isn't nearly so afraid of death as she is of Sherlock blocking her number, and isn't that a silly turn of events.

She lets her hands run over her body. The sleeves of his coat are much too long for her arms, of course, but she pushes them back the best she can against the muscle of her thighs, her fingers exploring herself. She misses Kate for this, dear sweet submissive Kate, who drops to her knees at a click of her mistress' fingers. But Kate will do well on her own. Irene wouldn't have had her otherwise.

She shakes herself out of reverie and turns her attention inward. She had better hurry - Sherlock and that adorable partner of his will be home soon enough. Even if she misses Kate, she can get by perfectly well on her own; one has to know pleasure to be able to give pleasure, after all. She imagines that Sherlock is home, listening for her in the bedroom as he plays the violin in the sitting room. She smirks to herself. As if he would get the satisfaction. She knows how to be silent. She wouldn't want to alert the housekeeper to her presence, after all. That would spoil the surprise. It's all part of The Game.

In her fantasy, he plays just for her: allegro for long sweeping strokes down her body, staccato for the times her fingers flick her clit, pizzicato for the moments her fingers dip swiftly inside her own heat. Oh yes, he would play her like a master and her body would sing just the way his violin does under his hands. She would teach him. For now, she plays herself, a tune she knows by heart. A touch here, a pinch there. She thinks of giving him a look, dragging him out of his chair with just her eyes. He would undress himself as she watched, fumbling in his haste to please her. She would stroke every inch of him with her crop, writing music in pink welts between the parallel lines of muscle on his back. God, he would be beautiful then, at her mercy. He would be a work of art in her hands.

She comes, her back arching, the wool of his sleeves rough against her hipbones as she presses her fingers to her clit, her face buried against his collar as she gasps. She lets herself lie there for a few long moments, wrapped up in his coat the way she can't be wrapped up in his arms. She could walk away right now, leaving only the scent of her perfume. She could leave and abandon her schemes. She could go on being a rule-breaker, a mischief-maker, a notorious name on some very important lists. But she doesn't want to. She very nearly wants him to figure her out, the way she's certain he'll figure out Moriarty's little puzzle. And if he doesn't, well. She'll be extremely rich and so deep underground that no signal could exist between them anyway.

She dresses herself with hands that tremble. Last of all, she hangs the coat on its hook, smoothing her fingers over the fabric. She gives it an affectionate look as she bundles herself into his bed. The bed itself is surprisingly comfortable for a man who never shares his dark hours with anyone. Full of surprises, this one. She likes that about him. He'd hold out a long while, trying to keep his secrets from her, but she would discover them, even if it meant turning him inside out. Oh, but the challenge of it: that would be worth her life.

In her head, the music starts again, slow and soothing, punctuated now and then by the flat smack of a lash. She smiles and pulls his duvet over herself. Catch me if you can, she thinks, and drifts off to sleep.


End file.
